


My pulse pumps out a beat to the ghost dancer

by Ferrera



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Abu Dhabi GP 2016, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 12:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11532156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrera/pseuds/Ferrera
Summary: You’d tried not to go through all the possible scenarios in the run-up to the race. It had only gotten you all worked up at first, but then anxiety had taken over, more and more often waking you up in the middle of the night, shaking and soaked in sweat next to Vivian. She would try to calm you, your heart still pounding in your chest, images of you climbing out of your wrecked car beside the track as Lewis crosses the finish line still flashing before your eyes.





	My pulse pumps out a beat to the ghost dancer

**Author's Note:**

> I started this shortly after Nico won the championship (and [this](http://68.media.tumblr.com/e6c0d48d0c189b3c6b6da627899747c1/tumblr_ohb4x1Eq251via34ko1_400.gif) happened), but then I had trouble finishing it. I recently gave it another try, and here we are. Better late than never I suppose. 
> 
> Set at the Abu Dhabi GP 2016.

  
You could’ve known Lewis would play this game.

 

You’d tried not to go through all the possible scenarios in the run-up to the race. It had only gotten you all worked up at first, but then anxiety had taken over, more and more often waking you up in the middle of the night, shaking and soaked in sweat next to Vivian. She would try to calm you, your heart still pounding in your chest, images of you climbing out of your wrecked car beside the track as Lewis crosses the finish line still flashing before your eyes.

 

You’d tried not to think about it, but deep down, you knew Lewis would do anything to prolong his status as the current world champion, even if it’s only by mere seconds.

 

By the looks of it, it might just fucking go his way once again. In your mirror, you see Sebastian getting closer and closer. You even get a glimpse of Max on the straights. Your heart’s racing in your throat, fingers gripping the steering wheel tight, as if it’ll keep your chances from slipping away. You feel feverish in your racing suit, light-headed as you breathe in the hot, sultry air. The floodlights around the circuit seem too bright now that the sun has set, the harsh, white artificial light making you feel disoriented.

 

You’ve never really been anxious on the track before. It’s never the car, never the speed— you’d started racing before you could even foresee the consequences of it, before realising you’d eventually put yourself in danger, your life in the hands of twenty-one hungry young men. And still, once you get into the car, you tend to forget about that, but not today— not now that you’ve got more to lose than just your life. Panic crawls up your throat, the thought as insane as it is terrifying. You feel as if you can’t breathe, the helmet almost smothering you, but you can’t let the fear paralyse you, and that’s when you decide if you’ll make it out of here alive, your name on that trophy and Vivian in your arms, you’ll quit.

 

Lewis is still slowing down and you can practically _feel_ Sebastian and Max coming closer, but you don’t fully trust Lewis not to push you off the track if you’d make a move on him. You feel alone, even though you’re caught between Lewis, Sebastian and Max, even though Tony keeps talking to you. _You only need P3_ , he reminds you, but if Sebastian gets past you, it’ll be Max behind you, and the thought of how much he’d be willing to risk makes you sick, the boy too eager to consider how long you’ve waited for this, how many times you’ve come second, too young to fully understand just how much this means to you, too selfish to realise you might never get the chance again.

 

You can see them both in your mirror now, blue behind red, and you can only keep going, keep pushing until the finish line and hope and pray it’ll be enough. The idea that these laps might be the last laps you’ll ever drive in F1 keep you going, forcing yourself to give it everything you’ve got.

 

Tony tells you you’re in the last lap but you barely hear him, not with Sebastian right behind you, still pushing. You’ve been racing against Sebastian for as long as you can remember, both making your debut the same season — he in Turkey as a test driver, but already the new golden boy, you, right from the start, as the son of your father. You know what he’s like on the track — impulsive and unpredictable at times, but mostly composed and never careless — and yet, you were never sure if you could fully trust him. It’s only seconds before the finish line that you realise you can.

 

*

 

For once, coming second is enough.

 

Lewis congratulates you, hardly looking you in the eyes, but you don’t really blame him— you know how tough it is. Then Sebastian’s right there. He tells you you’ve done it, congratulates you, eyes twinkling as if you’re sharing some kind of secret, and you’re so fucking relieved you can only pull him closer and hold him tight. There’s a lot you want to ask him and even more you want to tell him, most of all how fucking glad you are he didn’t pass you, whether it was deliberate or not, but there’s a massive lump in your throat and you can’t speak so you hug him tighter instead, hoping he’ll understand. He wraps an arm around your back, steadying you a little. You’re dizzy, legs feeling as if they might give way, blood rushing through your ears but over the sound of it you can hear him saying it again, _you’ve done it, you’re the world champion_.

 

*

 

It’s past midnight when the adrenaline finally starts to vanish and tiredness kicks in. You find yourself wandering aimlessly along one of the pools outside the hotel, needing a break from all the attention, the constant congratulations, all the flashing neon lights and the pounding of the music. It’s the first time since you’ve gotten out of the car that you’re alone. It feels surreal, strolling around here as the new world champion, no-one there to remind you, the chattering of all the people inside inaudible, the music reduced to a vague pounding.

 

The night air is fresh and cool now that the temperature has dropped and you take a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to clear your mind, your head still spinning a little, ears still buzzing. You let the darkness and calmness of the night wash over you, savouring the peace and quiet.

 

As the haziness starts to fade, flashes of the race come back to you, piercing through your mind clear and sharp and incredibly real, and with them comes the feeling of anxiety you felt back in the car, panic rising in your throat once again. You try to swallow it down, to push the memories away and think of crossing the finish line instead, of driving your lap of honour, of Sebastian’s heartfelt congratulations and finally holding Vivian in your arms, but somehow those moments all seem a bit of a blur.

 

You think of calling Vivian and ask her to come down, longing for her calming presence. You take your phone out of your pocket, but as you unlock the screen you decide against it. You’ve asked enough of her over the past year and you want her to enjoy the party for as long as it lasts. You flip your phone around in your hand, thinking of texting Sebastian instead. You haven’t seen him since you got off the podium and there are still questions you want to ask him, blanks you need him to fill. You’re not sure when you will see him again now that the season’s over, so you write _are you still here?_ and hit send before you can think twice about it.

 

You wait five minutes, ten minutes, and eventually you sit down by the side of the pool, dipping your toes in the pleasantly cool water. You’re not surprised he’s not texting you back— probably either too busy partying or already on the plane back to Germany. You think you might be missed at your own party by now and you’re about to write him _nevermind_ instead, but then the water ripples and you see him on the far side of the pool, toes dangling in the water.

 

He grins at you, looking rather young and playful the way he stands there with one leg of his trousers rolled up, shoe in his hand, and you can’t suppress a smile at the sight. Sebastian pulls his foot out of the water, then takes off his other shoe and walks over to you on bare feet.

 

“You all right?” he asks as he stands beside you, resting a hand on your shoulder. “You seemed rather far away.” You shrug as he sits down next to you. He rolls the legs of his trousers up to his knees before slipping his feet back into the water.

 

“How did you know I was here,” you ask instead, watching him as he stares into the darkness where his feet have disappeared under the surface.

 

“I came across Vivian,” he says, lips curling up in a smile as he looks up to you. “She said I’d probably find you here.”

 

Warmth spreads through you as he says her name. You’re slowly dragging your feet through the water, watching as it sloshes around your calves while a deep feeling of gratitude settles inside you. You think of coming up with a witty reply, of how she knows you probably too well for your own good or something like, but she deserves better than that, deserves more than you could ever give her.

 

“I couldn’t have done it without her,” you say, surprised at your own sudden frankness. You look back to Sebastian and find him smiling softly at you, eyes gleaming, and you know he understands. You expect him to ask why you texted him, but instead he says, “so, has it sunk in yet?”

 

It hasn’t, not really. You’ve pinched yourself every now and then since you’ve gotten out of the car to see if you’re not dreaming, and a couple of small bruises are starting to form on your forearm now, telling you you’re not.

 

“Not yet. You tell me how long it’ll take,” you say, expecting Sebastian to make a joke out of it, but he averts his eyes, smile fading from his lips.

 

“Enjoy it while it lasts. One day you’ll wake up and it’ll be nothing more than a distant memory,” he says, and only then you can see it’s not easy for him, being here with you, after you’ve just won the title he’d wanted just as much as you, just as much as Lewis, or any other driver on the grid. It throws you off a little, pulls you back to the ground after all the euphoria, all the praise you’d been showered in.

 

“I wanted to thank you,” you say, “I mean, you didn’t take a risk…” you trail off, the words sounding stupid to your own ears now. You’ve been in this position often enough to know what it feels like, others thanking you for something you’d done or refrained from after they had walked away with the win. Sebastian shrugs, looking over the pool, into the distance.

 

“That sore fucker,” he says, his voice low but sharp. “I didn’t think he’d show everyone what a bad loser he is.”

 

“You know what he’s like,” you say carefully, “he’d never surrender.” While you were on the track, during those last few haunting laps, you’d cursed him for it, but now that it’s all behind you, you can admit to yourself that that’s exactly why you still respect him as much as you do.

 

“You know him better than I do,” Sebastian muses, accusation still sounding through in his voice, and you wonder how far he would have gone.

 

You do know Lewis better than you know Sebastian. You’ve known Lewis long before the both of you truly dared to believe where the go-karting could take you, before you’d known that fighting each other for the championship year after year would eventually leave you feeling as if the universe played you off against one another, slowly but surely destroying the friendship you once had. You slept in the same bed, talking all night long about how cool it’d be if you could make it into F1 together. You told him your fears— of not being good enough, of not living up to the legacy of your father, and he told you his. You sure know Lewis better than you know Sebastian, but what’s it worth if you can’t trust Lewis anymore?

 

“Maybe we would’ve done the same,” you say as you stare at the reflection of the pool lights into the water, “who knows.” You don’t really mean to defend Lewis. It’s just— you’d gotten used to it, gotten used to everything going Lewis’ way, to Lewis always getting what he wants when it counts.

 

“You wouldn’t,” Sebastian says. You look up to find him watching you. “I know you wouldn’t,” he says again, firmer now, his eyes sincere. You shrug. You’ve heard it all before—you’re too kind, too soft, _not a real racing driver_ , but the way Sebastian says it, it feels more like a sign of respect than anything else.

 

“Thank you though, for not being too hard on me,” you say, hardly knowing how to reply to his words. You want to ask him whether he could’ve tried harder if he’d wanted to, how much he’d been willing to risk, but you know that if he could’ve passed you, he wouldn’t tell you. Sebastian shrugs again.

 

“You defended well and my tyres were starting to wear off. You’d still have won, though.”

 

You might have— or not. The thought alone still leaves you feeling a little restless. You keep telling yourself that it’s over, done, all the stress, all the hard work and sleepless nights have finally paid off, you’re the goddamn world champion, you’ve achieved all you’ve ever wanted. A cocktail of emotions spreads through you, bliss, relief and gratitude mixed with the doubt and insecurity always lying underneath and the memory of the anxiety you’d felt for weeks building up to the race, messing with your head.

 

“Come on,” Sebastian says suddenly, as if he doesn’t want to linger on the topic and well, maybe you shouldn’t, “you’re the world champion, time to go back to the party.” He takes his feet out of the pool and stands up, water dripping on the tiles. He extends his hand and you take it, letting him pull you up, a little unsteady and slippery with your feet wet on the tiles. You hold on to his hand probably a little too long, trying steady yourself a little and shake off the restless, nagging feeling still lying underneath, and Sebastian must see what’s haunting you in your eyes, because he wraps his hand around your forearm and looks at you in earnest, his blue eyes clear and vivid in the dim light.

 

“You deserved to win the championship,” he says, fingers digging into your skin where bruises are still forming, “and you deserved it more than Lewis.”

 

It’s stupid how reassuring his words are, insane how much you need to hear them, making you feel all fuzzy and warm, and you’re so fucking grateful you know you’d get on your knees for him if he’d ask you to. You’re exhausted to the bone— from the race, from the incredibly long and tough season and the roller coaster of emotions you’re still on. You think you can let your guard down here with him, finally show your emotions, and you want to let them unravel slowly, but tears well up in your eyes, as if all the stress is finally finding its way out. You try to bite back the tears, but Sebastian’s already seen them and pulls you in, wrapping his arms tight around your lower back and you hide your face in the crook of his neck instead, tears wetting the fabric of his shirt.

 

“Sorry,” you murmur against his collarbone, your cheeks heating up in embarrassment, but he only pulls you closer.

 

“It’s okay,” he says, slowly rubbing circles on your back, “you can let go.” Once again, you find that you can trust him. It fills you with an immense sense of pure bliss and satisfaction and you finally relax in his arms and let the tears flow, silent tears of happiness, relief and gratitude. You know he wouldn’t have done anything that would play into Lewis’ hands. Whether he could’ve passed you or not— he wouldn’t have. His respect means more to you than you would’ve thought, more than you would’ve wanted to admit during all those years you’d been racing together. He’d pretty much always been there, and most of the time he’d been ahead of you. You’d been in his shadow just as much as you’d been in Lewis’. Now that you’ve climbed your mountain, you can finally admit to yourself that the pressure you’d always felt to live up to all the expectations, your doubts and the fear of not being good enough always stood between you, keeping you from opening up to him and truly trusting him. It fills you with a sense of regret to have driven your last race against him and for a moment you think of telling him, but there’s someone else you can’t wait to tell first. Instead, you slowly breathe in the smell of his cologne as you savour the feeling of his arms around you, keeping you steady.

 

Your tears have stopped flowing and everything that’s been bothering you has been washed away. “Let’s get you back to Vivian, shall we?” Sebastian says, his breath warm against your cheek. You hum in agreement and he releases you from his arms, but he doesn’t entirely let go of you, one hand lingering around your wrist.

 

“You don’t win the championship by luck,” he says, and you _know_ , but deep down you always need the reassurance and you feel incredibly grateful to be surrounded by people who keep reminding you when you need it the most.

 

He lets go of your hand but before he can crouch down to put his shoes back on, you press a quick kiss to his cheek. He looks at you with questioning eyes, his lips curled up in a surprised, slightly puzzled smile.

 

You don’t think he realises how lucky you truly are.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This was mainly inspired by what Seb said after the race about Nico being a deserved champion and all (he literally said that one doesn't win the championship by luck) and [this](https://www.jamesallenonf1.com/2016/11/insight-an-irony-of-history-as-sebastian-vettel-avoids-getting-involved-in-f1-title-mash-up-in-abu-dhabi/) view on Seb's motives.
> 
> Title's from Gas Panic by Oasis.
> 
> Thanks again for reading, I'd love to hear what you think!


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